


Swallowtail

by Rotpeach



Series: Goretober 2016 [1]
Category: Boyfriend to Death (Visual Novel)
Genre: Gen, Goretober 2016, Guro, Medical
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-01
Updated: 2016-10-01
Packaged: 2018-08-18 23:00:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8179048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rotpeach/pseuds/Rotpeach
Summary: He looks like the sort who pulled the wings off of butterflies as a boy; not because he was cruel, but because he was curious.





	

**Author's Note:**

> for goretober day 1 prompt, "medical"

You are laid bare over cold metal, trembling a bit when he turns your arms so your palms face the ceiling, standard anatomical position.  When you start to squirm, he splays one gloved hand over your chest with just the lightest, barely-there pressure of a first warning, yet you go still like a butterfly mounted to a pinning block under glass.   _Papilio machaon_ it might say beneath your perfectly preserved body, wings pristine and antennae delicately curled, as though you are still alive.  This is the fantasy that you cling to.

He says not a word as his fingers dig into your abdomen—not a word meant for you, just the occasional mutter under his breath as if you aren’t even there—prodding at your rib cage and feeling where your bones meet through your flesh, and you lie there and wait, a butterfly, wings spread and body exposed, _Papilio machaon_ in the colors of day and night, fire and water, natural contrasts.

He regards you with the curious eyes of an impassioned collector as he uncaps a marker and draws a dotted line over your skin dividing you neatly down the middle from your throat to your navel, and you imagine him running you through with something sharp and shining along that line, of splitting you open and reaching deep inside.  You know somehow, without being told, without ever asking, that he’s going to take you apart.  He is going to do this calmly and quietly, ritualistically—as if you aren’t even _there, Papilio machaon,_ as if you are absent and your body is an object meant to be interacted with and seen in a decidedly one-sided manner, a museum piece, a wall-mounted item in one’s personal collection.  You imagine his hands sliding over muscle and bone, uncoiling your intestines and removing your lungs, pinning them in place with labels to complete the display.

And maybe he will be red up to his elbows, maybe he will not look as pristine as he does now and you will see something raw and real, but it will not be because of blood because butterfly blood is not red.  When the chrysalis splits open and something gruesome comes dripping out, it’s just meconium and there’s nothing to be afraid of.  Not in nature, anyway, not if you’d undergone metamorphosis under your own terms and in your own time.  But you are not ready yet to fly and he is not patient enough to wait, he is forcing you open to see your innards heave with every breath and feel your heart beat under his hands.

He looks like the sort who pulled wings off of butterflies; not because he was cruel, but because he was curious.  And had any lived long enough without them, he might’ve tried to give them new ones—more beautiful ones.  

The involuntary shudder that runs through your body draws his attention—briefly—to your face.  He tells you not to worry; he tells you he’ll stitch you back up when he’s finished.  He smiles as though it’s a joke and you smile back but not because you think it’s funny.  

You look into his eyes and you wonder what he sees when he looks at you.  Maybe a toy.  Maybe a specimen.  Maybe a fleeting interest, or maybe the latest in a series of obsessions.  The musty air and the sterile odor of disinfectant will be the last things you breathe.  Blindingly bright florescent lights will be the last thing you see.  A scalpel or a pair of surgical scissors or—if you are very lucky—latex will be the last thing you feel.  Your cheeks are warmed by tears that bubble to the surface and roll down your face.  He wipes them away absently, as if by force of habit, but you appreciate the gesture nonetheless.

 _Make something beautiful out of me,_ you want to tell him, but you choke on the words at the last minute.

Finally, he takes a seat, picks up a clipboard, turns to a fresh page, and clears his throat to get your attention

(yet he has had it, he has had it all along).

“So,” he says, “Tell me your medical history,” and you wonder if every pinned butterfly dreams of flight.

**Author's Note:**

> im on tumblr now! find me at rotworld  
> im gonna try to get something up for every day of goretober but im only gonna post my favorites of those here  
> after this month ill probably go back to my usual irregular pattern lol


End file.
